The High Road
by Stolen Boats
Summary: A family bond is something he will go to the ends of the Earth for, even if it means destroying the lives of his friends and himself. Kyle embarks to save his brother and is sent into an emotional tailspin that threatens to consume his life.
1. Chapter 1

**The High Road**

Where am I?

I know where I am in a physical sense. I am in the basement of Palace, South Park's most popular and frequented night club. The throbbing pulse of the music seems so distant, which I suppose is a bad thing. It's much closer then it sounds.

Kyle looks over at me. It's hard to convey in words what he's trying to say, but I'm pretty sure he's apologizing. I'm too far gone to pay any attention, I lean back and feel the wood chafe against the back of my skull. Everything just fucking sucks right now. Everything. I have nowhere to go. Nothing to do.

No one to live for.

It was a Tuesday awhile ago. I don't exactly remember when. Years, though, I'm fairly sure. One of those days that makes you feel good the moment you step outside, where the sky is an icy clear blue and you get the feeling the wind is cold but you can't really tell because you're very warmly bundled up. I was heading down to Kyle's house to hang out.

I was actually upset at the time. I don't exactly remember about what, probably Wendy. Now that I look back, I spent the best years of my life moping over a bitch who doesn't even matter. Not in the grand scheme of things, at all. Worthless, like me.

Anyway, I rounded the corner and stopped in my tracks. Two police cars were parked outside Kyle's house, one legally and another parallel parked in that serious, dramatic way you generally only see in crime dramas. I was surprised, sure, but even then I don't think I really grasped the gravity of the situation until I saw Sheila.

She looked like a skeleton. And for a woman with her figure, that's truly a near impossible feat. I swear, her eyes were sunken so deep into her head they could've just rolled out the back of her skull. Her skin had the same healthy glow as a dying beached whale.

Officer Barbrady was nowhere to be seen. That made sense, actually, he was sort of retarded and douchebag, so during the more serious cases often times they would send more professional officers from bigger counties. I recognized the ginger-haired officer who'd been around a few times before, but other then that I didn't know the five or six cops scuttling around the place like beetles.

I stood for a little while, not sure if it was okay for me to walk up or not. There was no caution tape, but then again I didn't know if I could just wander on by. When Sheila burst into tears and I still saw no sign of Kyle my mind immediately raced to the worst possible conclusion and I decided to go for it.

"Mrs. Broflovski!" I called out awkwardly, heading over. Ever since Kyle and I were kids she'd asked me to call her Sheila but I'd never gotten quite used to it. Especially now.

She looked up, as did the officer with mousy brown hair who'd been writing something down on his clipboard.

"Hey, hey kid!" He waved his hands in a distracted kind of way. "You're not allowed in here - dammit, Foley, I told you to keep pedestrians out!"

"No, no," garbled Sheila. "He's a...f-friend of my son's, he could...he might know something."

Then she continued with "He and Kyle..." and then descended into a complex language of moans, sobs, and muffled little noises. The police officer next to her offered her a back pat and then recoiled in disgust as her tears hit his jacket.

"What's your name?" The officer asked, looking slightly annoyed and rubbing at his jacket.

"Stan," I told him. "Stan Marsh."

A lick of ice cold wind whipped around the corner and I shivered, shoving my gloved hands into my pockets. "What's going on?"

"Yesterday at around 10 PM," began the officer, flipping through papers. "Ike Broflovski was discovered missing. Were you a close friend of Ike's?"

My first response was relief. Really, that was what this was all about? Preteen kids disappear for a day or two all time. I'd even done it, once or twice, as a kid. Mrs. Broflovski sure knew how to dramatize a situation. "Um, sort of...I'm closer with his brother, Kyle. We're around Ike a lot, though."

"Did anything seem odd about Ike last time you saw him?" The officer asked. His voice sounded a little odd, kind of like those automated messages you get from your school where your name is just inserted in. _'Hello and good evening, parents of South Park High! We're calling to inform you that your child..._stuh-an mar-sh..._has passed freshman year with flying colors!'_

Anyway, this guy sounded like that. Tired. Like he was just spitting out lines, and he could have just as easily said, 'Did anything seem odd about Jimmy last time you saw him?' He said Ike like a tired croak, not a name.

"N-No," I said, thinking back. I'd gone over to Kyle's two days ago to watch Terrance & Phillip. We were way too old for it, but we sometimes still liked to watch to remind us of when we were little kids. "He seemed fine. He wandered into the living room once or twice, I think."

"Nn," grunted the officer. He wrote it down and shrugged. "We may bring you in for questioning later. Just for any additional information."

Then, a blonde officer appeared at the doorway and motioned for the brown-haired officer to come with him and look at something. The two disappeared into the house and a third officer placed a hand on Sheila's back and steered her towards a police car.

I was now unattended. I cast a quick glance around, wondering if anybody would care, and then wandered in. I'd expected something matching the scene outside, caution tape and maybe the outline of a dead body on the floor, but it looked surprisingly...normal. If I hadn't just been outside I would never have been able to tell. Sheila was sitting on the couch, crying, and the officers sat with her. There had been another one loitering around the kitchen, I think, but other then that it was pretty much untouched.

I don't really remember what happened next. I think I stood around awkwardly for a little while, wondering if I should go upstairs. Regardless, I think I did.

Kyle was lying face down on his bed. His door was open, so I did that thing where you step over the threshold of the room and just kind of rap your fingers on the door, even though you're practically inside already.

"Hey," I said, not really thinking of anything to say.

Kyle flinched, presumably because he hadn't known I was there. Then he rolled over so I could see his eyes, which were puffy and bloodshot. He didn't look half as bad as his mother, but he looked pretty wrecked.

"I-I wouldn't worry, dude," I consoled. "What is Ike, now, eleven? His hormones are probably just kicking in, you know, and he's being a rebel and all the little kid stuff."

It was a pretty stupid thing to say, now that I think about it.

"I've been thinking," Kyle said hoarsely. "But it's just...Ike's not that kind of kid, you know? I've been replaying it in my mind over and over, and I just don't think he would do that sort of thing."

There was a long pause.

"I'm really worried, Stan," he said even lower, and I took a few steps further to hear. "I...he talked to me. Before. There were some kids at his school, kids who pushed drugs and shit like that...I told him he should ignore it, but...I told him it was just hormones, Stan. Told him 'boys will be boys'."

"Did you tell the police that?" I asked him.

"Of course I told the police that!" He howled, but I'm fairly sure his anger was directed inward. He rolled over again, burying his face in his pillow. "It'll probably all blow over in a few days. But still, what if...what if he's in serious trouble?"

"It doesn't make sense, Stan," I could distinguish through the muffles. "Ike's always been straight as an arrow. Straight A's, never tardy...oh god, Mom is totally wrecked...her over reaction is infectious."

"It's just one night," I told him, and then I sat down on the edge of the bed and offered a reassuring pat on his calf. Kyle didn't even acknowledge me, just clenched the pillow harder.

For a few minutes Kyle just rambled, replaying events in his head, talking about Ike's character and flaws, descending into mumbles of, "but it doesn't work. On Thursday he ate all his dinner so he couldn't be upset...so it must have happened after then but before Sunday...no, no, on Monday he didn't give Mom a hard time about brushing his teeth...no, that doesn't work...maybe on Tuesday something...no, no that can't be it..."

I sat there like the stupid idiot I was and spat lies. "It's just a boy thing." "He'll be back soon." "I'm sure he's fine." It hadn't been that long, after all. Boys disappear for a day or two all the time, right? I think, despite my charade that this was common and Kyle analyzing it over and over, both of us knew some serious shit had gone down.

Tuesday melted into Wednesday, which in turn melted in Thursday, and so on. By the next Tuesday even I wasn't getting out of bed in the morning.

Seven days of bleary-eyed Kyle wracking his brain for some clue as to where Ike was. Seven days of Sheila sobbing non-stop. Seven days of walked into a house heavy with sadness, where even the air seemed gray and sad. Seven days of a quiet, withdrawn Gerald saying no more then two words. I couldn't stay home, I couldn't abandon Kyle in that hellish pit. But I hated going there, breathing in the same stale air those people were breathing.

I keep trying to think about the first Tuesday, when I stepped out on the porch and my biggest concern was Wendy. I tell myself to go back inside, but instead I turn and wander on down to Kyle's. Turn back. Then I round the corner and I'm reliving it, looking at Sheila by the doorway and seeing Kyle buried in his pillow.

But the worst part, by far, was the redundancy. By the third day the air was so stifled I wished it was the first day again. And by the fifth day I wished it was still the third day, and each day was just this endless thing of me wishing I was in the past, when in fact I'd spent the past wishing I was even farther back.

Anyway, by Thursday it had been nine days. What had started as another angsty pre-teen being rebellious had gone to a possible child abduction case, and now there was never a time when an officer or two wasn't loitering around in Kyle's house.

I headed over Thursday evening. The clear, cold weather was broken up; nowadays shreds of flat clouds stained the sky and in the air hung the telltale sting of a coming thunderstorm. I rounded the corner and smacked into the back of Kenny, who'd been standing on the edge of the corner in the dimming light.

"Oh, hey Kenny," I mumbled, and Kenny looked up at me and dipped his head.

There was a deer across the street. We got them all the time, sometimes they would graze or wander by. On one instance we'd even seen one leap out in front of a car and narrowly escape death. This one was a doe, kind of on the small side, and not doing anything particularly interesting. For about ten minutes, Kenny and I stood on the street corner in the cold dark and watched this deer root around in the half an inch of snow on the ground.

The deer left. Kenny turned towards Kyle's house and I followed wordlessly behind.

"Hey guys," Kyle said from where he was sitting on the porch. The angst was really killing me by this point. I think, even though I hate to admit it, that I was getting a little tired of Kyle's attitude. I mean, you're supposed to take care of your friends when they're depressed. But it had been nine days, and I was starting to get...jealous? I don't even know. All I knew is that things were getting worse and I was just the tiniest bit tired of Kyle getting all the attention.

Selfish, I know. But it's the truth.

"Boys," said Gerald upon watching us enter. "Sheila and I have organized...we've organized an...event, I suppose...for...awareness about..." he trailed off, then realized we all knew who he was talking about and just started over. "It's on Sunday. Can we count on your attendance?"

"Mmhmm," nodded Kenny.

"Of course, Mr. Broflovski," I said stiffly, and Gerald nodded and leaned back into his chair, breathing a long, drawn out sigh.

Kyle swallowed and then something happened, I think. I'm trying very hard to remember, but I can't. We didn't do a lot during those days, Kyle and Kenny and I. Fairly dark. Anyway, days passed and before I knew it, it was time for the "event", as Gerald had so called it. Kyle told me it was marking the fifth day since the police had organized search parties, and the twelfth day since Ike had disappeared.

Mrs. Broflovski had hired a woman to help her plan it, a sort of joint fundraiser and awareness party of sorts? I don't even think party was the right word. Anyway, I tossed in my 20 bucks and my Dad gave a lot more.

"No bright colors, Stan," reprimanded my Mom from the kitchen, smoothing out her black dress. I turned to catch my reflection in the television. I was wearing a black suit with itchy brown shoes and a black tie. I shot a questioning glance back at my Mom.

"Your hat, Stan," she motioned at my trusty hat, poofball and all, perched on my head. I frowned and then took it off, feeling slightly less confident.

"Where's Shelly?" She called out to my Dad, who was fiddling with his sleeves.

I really hated this. A few years ago we'd had to go to a Sunday matinee showing of some movie. My mom had put on that same dress and she'd called for my sister, who had been holed up in her room. This was not a movie. Ike was gone and my Mom was dressed up like this was just another weekend outing. But it wasn't, really, not at all.

"Now, Stan," My Dad turned to me, rubbing the back of his neck. "There's a lot of etiquette involved with...vigils and events like this, I guess. You have to be very polite, okay, Stanley? Be very respectful and keep your head down."

"I know, Dad," I responded mechanically.

These people didn't know Ike. Neither did I, really. This wasn't a joke. Someone was gone. Why was everyone acting so stupid? This wasn't an exciting event. It's not a thing. Ike is gone. It's not a joke and it's not funny. Stop acting like the lint on your dress bothers you, Mom, Ike could be dead. Stop fiddling with your shoes, Dad, there are more important things.

Then Shelly came down the stairs and we all shuffled out of the house like a good little family and piled into the car. I tried to keep a blank but respectful expression on my face, staring at the laces on my shoes.

The car was pretty stuffy, especially because it was my Dad's and we rarely rode it all together. A few years later he ended up getting a new one, but back then he still had his crappy old blue one that squeaked when it moved.

Uncomfortable silence.

The drive was pretty okay, I remember. Shelly stared stiffly ahead and I stared out the window, watched the world speed by. It was gray out, clouds drifted across the sky like big puffy ships. We passed a deer and I idly wondered if it was the same one Kenny and I had watched, back outside Kyle's house.

The vigil was out in a field, which was supposed to be (as the woman helping plan had put it) "mournful, yet dramatic; symbolic of hope". I think some of the drama was taken out of it for me, though, considering Kyle and I had played in this field a lot as kids. That and there were fields all over South Park, the planner had clearly come from the city, where birdsong and snow were considered "rare beauties".

"Hey, dude," Kyle said and then scuffed his feet. He was standing at the edge where cars were jammed in a line, welcoming people. His parents stood behind him a show of solidarity, his mother not crying but on the verge of tears and his father drained. Next to them stood a short woman with curled blonde hair and too-white teeth. She had on a gray skirt and gray suit jacket with a fuzzy white turtleneck underneath.

"Hi, Kyle," I responded automatically, warily eyeing the mysterious woma.

"Hello, you must be Stan," the woman with too-bright teeth smiled at me, straightening her brown suit jacket. "I'm Ellyis Mayer, coordinator of this fundraiser and sympathy get-together. May I direct you to the lawn chair to your right?"

I wanted to slap that bitch across the face, saying things like that in front of Kyle. "Sympathy get-together"? She was a fucking joke, this girl. She'd set up a full circle of metal lawn chairs and two black tables laden with chips and fruit punch. This whole pitiful layout was on uneven, dewey grass that made my feet itch even in their too-big shoes. Pictures of Ike were plastered everywhere, and another "coordinator" was handing out flyers. A make-shift fire pit was at the center of the whole catastrophe, and people in formal clothes were hunched around it, glasses of champagne in hand, looking distastefully at the stains on their expensive shoes.

"This is to promote awareness about Ike Broflovski," Ellyis said to the couple arriving behind you. "Can I put you down for a $200 pledge?"

"I don't even know what this is," Kyle told me, his voice cracking. "That Ellyis woman is just...god, Stan, I don't even know. We got Ike's phone bill from the phone company yesterday. He hasn't called anyone in three weeks. We're doing a bus check tomorrow. Mom's already filed for camera footage from nearby shopping malls."

I didn't know how to respond to that. Even now, years later, I can't think of anything I could have said to lessen Kyle's pain. Ike was gone. It was even weirder, because Ike had never been a big part of my life, you know? Here's this kid, my best friend's brother, who has suddenly become the center of my universe.

Ellyis directed people into chairs and, at one point, directed them in hopeful singing until Sheila broke down again. The entire thing was so pitiful it was excruciating, not to mention embarrassing.

"Let's get out of here," Kyle finally moaned, watching Ellyis comforting a crying woman in a deep purple dress who wasn't even related to Ike.

I should have protested, insisted he stay with his famiy. But watching people donate and then sit around and talk was painful enough that I just nodded. We both casually walked side by side until we were close to the sidewalk and then bolted off, racing down the sidewalk.

"I don't," huffed Kyle, coming to a halt. "I don't like...being around my family...or those...those people."

Again, my throat was dry. No response. Nothing to say. Worthless. Helpless.

"Everything sucks, Stan," Kyle finally finished. "I just...I can't imagine why...or what..."

He repeated everything he'd said before. Ike wouldn't do this. Ike was smart. Ike was nice. Ike was good.

Ike was gone.

We wandered around the town late Sunday afternoon, hands in our pockets. Kyle had what could have been five pounds of flyers, he wandered into shops and asked people to post them on their bulletin boards. Shopkeepers and customers alike expressed their sympathy and soon Ike's face covered more wall space then all of the "Lost Cat" posters combined.

I hate that I can't remember. I hate that I can't relive these moments, can't go over them clearly in my head. I guess I wish there was something I could have done, something I could have said. It was there all along, the perfect solution on the tip of my tongue, and I never got to say it. I was a useless fool, and while Kyle was proactive and good I just wandered along, silent and aimless.

Sunday ended. So did Saturday. Monday started, and I had to go to school. Kyle didn't.

When Kyle wasn't around they whispered, and a few even approached me and asked how Kyle was doing. Cartman was, to his credit, less of an asshole then he usually was - still, when Kyle finally showed up on Tuesday (two weeks since Ike had gone missing) the first words out of his mouth were, "Where've you been, Jew rat?"

When Kyle was around things were worse. People didn't approach me. They didn't want to get caught up in the whirlpool that I had, getting sucked into family matters. They silently offered sad looks and then turned away, back again in their own little bubbles. Kyle was practically a ghost.

More days passed. Twenty days after Ike went missing the case started to fall from public eye. No cell phone calls, no bus records. Ike hadn't been spotted on caught on any security camera in all of Park County. Mrs. Broflovski didn't stop there, of course. I spent that weekend alone: Kyle and his family drove a county down and checked their bus records, too.

On the three-week anniversary of Ike disappearing things were looking extremely grim. Kyle and I didn't really talk about things, we were both so absorbed in our own thoughts, so in a desperate attempt to make him smile I'd busted out my old copy of Monopoly. Pretty tattered and ripped up, but something to fill the void. Kyle and I played with minimal talking. Kyle was the scottie dog. I don't remember what piece I chose.

I turned on the radio. Fill the void, right? If anything, the plastic upbeat pop just made it worse. And the slow songs highlighted the heavy air. After ten minutes or so I turned it back off, and then the silence seemed even more stiff.

"He made a call," sniffed Kyle finally, in a quiet tone.

"What?"

"Mom and Dad don't know this." Kyle told me, his tone even and calm. "But Ike's phone made a call yesterday."


	2. Chapter 2

**a/n; thanks so much for all the kindly reviews! yes, short chapter is short, but I just wanted to get this out here to let you guys know I'm still alive.**

If you google search "when someone goes missing" online, one of the things it suggests you do is get a record from the phone company of all the calls the person made, so you can see if they got into trouble of any kind. Ike must have had his phone on him when he disappeared, because it was gone and no amount of searching done by the police made it show up. Sheila, of course, retrieved the records fairly soon after he disappeared and there were no records for an abnormally long amount of time. In other words, Ike didn't call anyone for a few weeks. Which is pretty odd for an eleven year old kid.

"So, Mom gave up on that," Kyle explained as I stared slack-jawed. I should have stopped him, should have seen the false hope glowing in his eyes. I know now, of course, that Ike didn't make that call. But then I was silent, as I always was, completely worthless. "She turned to security cameras. But I figured phone records were useful, so I went back a few days ago to get a more updated list."

Kyle pulled from his pocket a scrappy piece of paper, folded and dirty. He held it like the holy grail, gingerly unfurling it so as not to tear it anymore and holding it out for me to see. It was a spreadsheet. At the top was BROFLOVSKI, IKE along with his service provider, phone number, and phone model. The spreadsheet was entirely empty boxes, except for one at the top.

**1. DONAHUE, WI ; 00:00:59 ; 2:47 AM ; 2/20**

So on the 20th of February his phone made a call.

Kyle took back the paper and hugged it to his chest like it was the only thing in the world that mattered. "I already checked the phonebook, there isn't a Donahue, Wi registered in South Park, but there is a Marcus Donahue, so I was thinking we-"

"It was a 59 second phone call," I repeated. Somewhere, the past me was finally making one good decision: stopping Kyle in his tracks. Hope was a dangerous thing, especially in situations like this. "If Ike still had his phone, then he would have called someone by now, right?"

"Yeah, so Ike probably didn't call anyone," Kyle said, yet his voice remained surprisingly optimistic. "But someone did. Someone who has Ike's phone, which means they may know something."

I cannot for the life of me remember the date Ike went missing. I'm momentarily shocked back to the present, hearing the steady boom of music above me, feeling the ground sticky beneath my palms.

"Kyle," I whisper. "What day did Ike go missing?"

There's no response for a little while, though I see Kyle's bloodshot eyes slide over to me. "February 2nd."

Okay, the 2nd.

Anyway, where was I? Kyle and I were holed up in my house on the three-week anniversary of Ike disappearing, and there was me being silent and worthless as usual and Kyle holding this holy piece of paper, practically glittering with hope. The call had been made on the 20th, 18 days after Ike went missing.

"Listen, Marcus Donahue lives just under four blocks away," continued Kyle, and his voice sounded as though he'd spent a lot of time thinking about it. "I would bring the police, but it's in Kenny's neighborhood, and you know how those people get around the police."

I could sense where this was going. Current me would have said no. Current me would have told Kyle to shut up and roll the dice because it was his turn and he was about to pass Go and collect $200, unless he rolled a four in which case he owed me 320 bucks, but past me was even more stupid and worthless then me now. I just sat there like I always did.

"I figure you and I could go talk to him," Kyle said. "Just, you know, before we involve the police. I just want to check it out."

"I dunno," I replied, at the time hesitant mostly because I didn't want to walk four blocks, not because I could have possibly guessed the implications. I should have said no. I would sell my soul to go back in time and tell him now. "That doesn't sound too great."

"Please, Stan," Kyle begged, and from the hope and pain in his eyes I sighed and nodded.

I hadn't thought about the implications, really. I'd thought Kyle had to heal in his own way on his own time, and I had to support him. I'd though, what harm could a neighborhood visit do?

"Thanks, Stan," Kyle smiled and zipped up his jacket. "I promise it'll only take a few minutes."

Famous last words.

I shouldn't have done it. But seeing hope in Kyle's eyes for the first time in so long, it just made me think that maybe...maybe Ike was out there, maybe this could help. I just wanted things to be the way they were before so desperately, I just wanted us to hang out again like three best friends and Cartman.

We headed out the door and Kyle took the lead, moving quickly. It was a companionable silence. I looked across the road and saw a single deer, this one a male with antlers, munching on a near-dead bush. I was reminded of the day Kenny and I watched the deer, and of all the times growing up I'd seen deer. It was funny how many of them were around here. I felt like I was seeing the world through new eyes, appreciating it more.

Of course, the beauty fell to ruin when we reached Kenny's side of town, the poor side. The sparse grass died away entirely, neatly trimmed lawns turned to abandoned car tires and nameless rubble. Clean windows and shiny doorknobs turned to boards and dilapidated lean-tos. As if it were possible, it even seemed colder over on this side. I stumbled over a crack in the sidewalk until Kyle put out a hand and stopped me.

"This is it," Kyle told me. The house we'd stopped at was one story, cracked and entirely red brick. Of the four front windows, one was broken and boarded over and another showed no signs of ever even having a windowpane. The door was peeling and yellow, and a pile of cinderblocks was stacked by the door.

We wandered up to the door and Kyle knocked, papers in hand.

A woman opened the door. She was wearing what could maybe be called a shirt but is more commonly called a bra, and it was an unattractive shade of pink. I was expecting some kind of miniskirt, but to my relief she was wearing jeans. The girl herself had a rather short nose and heavy black eyeshadow with big tacky hoop earrings. She practically chewed on her cigarette and then puffed on Kyle and I's faces.

"Who're you?" She said nonchalantly, blowing cumulonimbus clouds into my nostrils.

"Um, my name is Kyle Broflovski," started Kyle, who had at first been put off by her appearance but wasn't missing a beat. "Three weeks ago my younger brother, Ike Broflovski, went missing. His phone records indicate that on February 20th he called a person with the last name Donahue and a first name beginning with Wi. Would you have anyone in your home who-"

"Stephen!" The woman screamed, dropping her still-lit cigarette on the doorstep where it lay among other cigarette butts. Then she stomped it out with her bare foot. "Brahlove ski wants to see you!"

The woman waved at us to enter and revealed a yellow carpet splattered with brown stains and dirt. A gray couch was in the corner, next to it was a coffee table littered with cigarettes and empty bottles.

"Um, this is the residence of Marcus Donahue, correct?" Kyle backtracked, looking around.

The woman laughed. "My husband? Naww, he's in jail."

"Oh," responded Kyle, peering into the kitchen. "Does anyone live here with you?"

"Why're y'all asking so many questions?" She licked her lips and lit up another cigarette. "STEPHEN!"

"My younger brother-" Kyle started, and then an angsty looking teenager tromped into the room.

"What?" The kid growled.

"Brahloveski is here again," she complained. "Don't look at me like that, Stephen this ain't my job!"

The woman huffed and left the room. Kyle's eyes glowed like embers, especially when she said _again_.

"You stupid whore!" Stephen called into the kitchen. "This isn't Ike! This is what I get for thinking she could handle the door this once, god."

"You know Ike?" Kyle asked with a mixture of hope and horror.

"What of it?" Stephen snarled. "Who are you?"

"I'm Ike's older brother-" began Kyle.

"Kyle," supplied Stephen.

"Y-Yeah," responded Kyle, slightly surprised. "When did you last see Ike?"

"God, I dunno," Stephen rubbed the back of his neck, elbow brushing against the eight links, coils, rings, and mechanical wonders that nested in his right ear. "Do you guys have any money?"

I was...upset? I don't really remember. The house was really disgusting, smelling of smoke and alcohol. The only thing I could think about was leaving, so I left all the talking to Kyle.

"...I have five bucks," offered Kyle, grinding his teeth. "But Ike could be in serious trouble and-"

"What about him?" Stephen jerked his head in my direction. "How much does he have?"

"A twenty," I told him. "But only if you tell us when you last spoke to Ike."

Stephen shrugged and Kyle took my twenty, begrudgingly handing Stephen the money.

"January 3rd," Stephen told us, folding up the bills and tucking him into his front shirt pocket. "Hung out with my little brother."

"Who's your younger brother?" Kyle persisted.

"Willy," Stephen yawned, rubbing the back of his head. "Well, half-brother, actually. My mom's dead, Jennifer is married to Dad now, they have Willy and Natasha."

Kyle's eyes lit up. "Can we talk to Willy?"

Stephen shrugged and then shuffled into the kitchen, gesturing to the wall.

Kyle crossed the living room and pulled at a brown door I'd failed to notice. So many stains and pockmarks littered the walls it blended right in.

The door ripped open with a shriek and a puff of cold hair hit my face. I walked over, peering out into their backyard over Kyle's shoulder. Tufts of yellowing grass grew here and there. A discarded tricycle lay on it's side, wheels missing.

"Who the fuck are you?"

Willy Donahue was sprawled out across the dirt, hands behind his head. It seemed he was sunbathing, but he was in the shade under a yellow striped umbrella. A dirty white t-shirt was stretched across his figure, his jeans were ripped to ribbons, and a fitted cap snugly nestled around his head, tufts of dirty brown hair poking out.

"My name is Kyle Broflovski-"

"Oh," choked Willy, and he sat up, rubbing his eyes. He stirred up large clouds of dust when he moved. "I didn't give it to him, honest Kyle, he came and asked-"

"Gave him what?"

Willy blinked up at Kyle. "What you here for?"

"Ike's been missing for three weeks," Kyle told him. "Since February 2nd."

"Ah, I haven't seen him," relaxed Willy, letting out a sigh and falling back onto the dirt. "Not since January."

"What was Ike doing at your house?" Kyle asked desperately.

"He wanted some pot," Willy said nonchalantly, as if he were discussing the weather.

For a few seconds, Kyle and I froze. I remember being genuinely shocked at this point - Ike? A stoner? It didn't add up. Ike had always done so well in school, been so quiet, so well-behaved...

Kyle leapt forward and grabbed the neck of Willy's shirt, jerking him forward and spraying dirt everywhere. Willy's eyes flashed in terror under his cap. Had the nature of the situation been different I would have noticed what a jerk the kid was, acting cool and shoving swear words every other sentence. Sad, really, that he was being raised in such an environment.

"What the fuck man?" Willy's fist connected with Kyle's jaw, but he was much too young and Kyle brought his leg up with surprising force, his knee connecting with Willy's groin and making the boy scream in pain, then collapse on the floor.

Stupid, spineless me observed, mouth agape. "K-Kyle! What are you doing?"

"You filthy little gutter rat," snarled Kyle. "Getting my little brother hooked on drugs! Ike would never! How DARE you!"

Tears sprang into Willy's eyes, he curled inward and brought his hands over his eyes, moaning.

"It's his fault Ike's gone, Stan!" Even Kyle's eyes were shining with tears now, and his left foot connected solidly with Willy's ribs, inducing a resounding sickening crack. Willy howled in pain and Kyle froze, stepping back. "Everyone knows what happens when you get involved with drug dealers!"

"Kyle, what the hell did you just do?" I looked from Kyle to the little boy, not 15 years old, crying in the dirt and the dust. Dealer or no, Kyle had just beaten down a kid.

"Willy!" The house's window swung open, and from it Jennifer Donahue spat out her cigarette and stared at her son's form. "Oh my Lord, Willy!"

"We have to get out of here," I told Kyle, who was frozen to the spot. I grabbed his arm and turned, plowing into the rotting wood of the back fence. It gave way easily, but that wasn't the worst part. Thick, heavy bushes grew on the outside, and weed-choked trees grew close together. I plunged in, ignoring the sting of thorns on my calves and shins, my immediate goal being to get Kyle out of here.

Suddenly, the trees were gone. The ground was replaced with a dirt road lined with lumber, a few yards along was a makeshift basketball court where six or seven kids were playing. I bolted down the other way, dragging the limping Kyle along behind me. I ignored the tiny, stifled sobs as he slunk along behind me. Lumber turned to broken down houses, unfamiliar ghetto and cracked pavement.

I abruptly turned right and dropped Kyle on the lid of a dumpster, myself sitting on cinderblock across the way. We'd taken shelter in a narrow alleyway between two houses, barely enough for the two of us to sit. The whole thing had happened remarkably fast, neither Willy nor Jennifer had given pursuit.

Busting out of a kid's backyard had only been the beginning.

"Would you mind telling me," I panted. "What that was back there?"

Kyle leaned back, eyes closed. Blood dripped down from a scratch above his eye, and his legs looked just as torn up as mine. "I..."

There was a very long pause while we both sat in silence, brooding and bleeding.

"I don't even know, man," Kyle choked. "I just...Ike is...I guess now that he's gone, I just...I couldn't control myself. There are so many things I should have done, Stan. But I can still...I can still do them, I just...I just need Ike, Stan. Ike would never buy pot. That kid Willy was lying, I just know it, and in that moment I just couldn't stop it, Stan. I was projecting that onto Willy...I beat up a fourteen year old kid...oh God, I'm going to get arrested..."

Kyle was 17, he couldn't be arrested legally. And anyway, this was a bad neighborhood. That happened all the time. But I kept my mouth shut, instead watching Kyle rub his temples and exhale, heavily. He deserved to spend a minute or two wallowing in what he'd done.

"Listen, man, no way somebody who deals marijuana is going to call the police on _us_," I put a hand on his shoulder, frightened a little by the terrified and crazed look in his eyes.

"Oh god, Stan," Kyle curled up even tighter, eyes glistening with tears he was not going to cry. I wasn't either, so we sat in silence until both of us could swallow the lumps in our throats and get up. He was limping, but when I offered to help he shoved me off and stumbled the wrong way down the street.

"Uh, Kyle, we should-"

"I don't want to walk past his house," Kyle said through gritted teeth, and I didn't push the matter.

The two of us weaved our way deeper into the labyrinth of broken architecture.


	3. Chapter 3

It was dark out by the time Kyle and I managed to find our way out of that neighborhood. And I use the term "find our way out" loosely - Kyle would not let us within five blocks of Willy's house in any direction, so we'd wandered blearily until Kenny had appeared suddenly like an orange-clad ghost and guided us to safety. I explained what had happened to him as we trekked back, Kyle's hands in his pockets and his face turned down.

"Kyle, dude," Kenny mumbled through his hood when I'd finished, seeming at a loss for words. I couldn't really make out a lot of the rest, only "that's some fucked up shit" and "were you thinking" and some exclamations. Kyle took it in somberly, sniffling and generally making pathetic noises.

We crossed the threshold into our part of the neighborhood and said goodbye to Kenny, since at that point it was actually quite late. Kyle and I were about to his house, we rounded the corner, and-

It was like being slammed by a killer whale. A massive force knocked into Kyle, and Kyle fell onto me and I fell against the wall. And Sheila, with swollen red eyes and blotchy cheeks, wrapped ten fingers around her son's shoulders and wailed, "WHERE. HAVE. YOU. BEEN?"

And I felt horrible. I felt bad for going with Kyle, I felt bad for Kyle himself, I felt bad for Sheila, I felt bad for Gerald, I felt bad for Ike...I felt horrible. Of course Sheila was worried, panicked even. We weren't just two kids roaming our hometown anymore. The shock of losing Ike - the horror of losing her only other boy. Oh, God, what I must have just put Sheila through.

Sheila's fat tears rolled into Kyle's jacket as he patted her on the back and consoled her.

"I'm fine Mom, really, I am-Stan and I just went to visit Kenny," another bout of sobs racked her body, and with his eyes Kyle motioned for me to go. "Really, Mom, I'm 100% okay."

"I'm so sorry, Mrs. Broflovski, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry," and then I backed away down the street, ran through the rapidly falling night air back into my own home, with my own sister and family and problems, and lay face down on my bed and slept peacefully, dreamlessly, and restfully.

Morning came like an inevitable sickness seeping into my bones. February 24th. Four days since Ike's call, twenty-two days since he went missing. I could hear Shelly downstairs, talking to Mom about something. Her lisp was comforting, a reminder that she was still here. I had never had the relationship with her that Kyle had had with Ike, but I found myself struck with her disappearance. What would I do if Shelly was gone? Part of me, the childish part, yelled good riddance to all her complaining and bitching and moaning, but the more logical part would feel alone. It would feel like a big rift in my soul, and every time something reminded me of Shelly-every time I passed her room, or saw a girl with her hair, or a girl with a lisp, or a girl with braces, or a television show she liked-everything would be like someone was sticking a knife in the wound and turning it, turning it until it was raw and fresh. What Kyle must be going through right now.

I got up, slipped into regular clothes, put on my faithful hat. I wandered downstairs. Mom and Shelly were having toast. Mom waved me over.

"Stanley, come eat with us," Mom insisted, her voice unusually high.

"Mom, I really just want to-"

"Right now, Stanley," she said, using her stern motherly voice. That hadn't changed with age. Almost every day she let me blow off breakfast to hang with Kyle, but to today she insisted I sit and eat with them. Her eyes, though not as sunken, bloodshot, and hopeless as Sheila's, were already taking on a little bit of a paranoid sheen.

We sat and ate in silence. These are the things I wish I could remember, these moments of life that are so fucking precious you don't know it until they're gone, and the toast is just crumbs under your fingers and those moments with the people you love have slipped away like ghosts, and you don't even know it. You don't even think, you just sit numbly while time robs you of youth and age robs you of passion. I just sat there.

Mom cleaned up the dishes. Shelly offered to help, which I'd never seen her do. I just wanted to get away. Kyle's family was carrying a virus of sorts, a virus of depression, and Kyle had given it to me and I'd spread it to them and I didn't want it to spread to them, I wanted them to be happy. I rolled out the door, pulled my jacket tightly around my shoulders, and headed down to Kyle's house. I didn't even have to think.

Kyle opened the door, his hair wild and burning red in the dim light. We exchanged tiny, tentative smiles at his hair and then I walked in. Sheila was nowhere to be seen. Gerald was sitting in the kitchen, sipping from a mug of coffee. Ike was-oh, right.

"Good morning, Stanley," Gerald gave me a tired, abused looking smile from where he sat and then returned to his paper.

We went up to his bedroom, and Kyle closed the door.

"Did Sheila see your-?"

"No," Kyle said, sitting down on his bed and unbuttoning his pajama shirt. "See? I mixed some of Shelly's concealer with vaseline, so the scratches blend in perfectly." It was true. The scrapes on his collarbones and shins were gone, his skin faintly lighter. But that was Kyle so fucking smart.

"Smart," was my intelligent and thoughtful response. "This is...kind of gay, though."

Kyle and I looked at each other, and he let out a startled laugh. It was choked, a half-second long. We both stood there for a second, surprised it had appeared, surprised it even existed. He laughed. So soon, just twenty-two days later. Kyle's eyes were suddenly full of tears, and he buried his face in the salt-stained pillow and wailed. I wilted.

Kyle dried his eyes after a moment. He said, "I've been thinking about what Willy said-"

"Kyle," I moaned, and cut him off right there. I should have punched him, honestly, but I didn't. I couldn't let Kyle keep doing this, this was just prolonging those weird and ungainly hopes of his, those birds with wings of lead who were never going to fly. I didn't want him to get hurt, I didn't want to hurt him anymore.

And yet.

I was a little bit curious, too. Just human nature, I suppose. Curious about the call, about who could be handling Ike's phone, about the nature of the whole situation. And also, I think, a part of me wanted to believe it, too, that Ike was still out there, his eleven-year-old self roaming the streets like a streetwise kid. I saw him as Aladdin, basically. But with no monkey. Actually, a monkey would be cool.

"Ike's room is down the hall," Kyle persevered, head still muffled by his pillow. "I never saw any smoke. I never smelled anything. His eyes were never red, he had straight As. I don't believe it. Something else has to be going on."

"Drugs are weird, man," I didn't want to appear too opposed to searching further, that would only further encourage Kyle to carry it out. But I really, really didn't want to see Kyle crying anymore. This sort of thing, even if I was curious, could only end in disaster.

Death is a funny thing. Up until that point, the only thing I knew of death, or disappearing: that sort of thing belonged in theaters, something to gawk at while you tightly gripped the wrist of your sister, or your mother or father, and thought to yourself, oh god, what if? and munched on popcorn. But such things, major disasters in movies or books- everything faded away eventually. Even my ancient grandfather still rolled across our kitchen floor every morning. Kyle and I had been in so many scrapes and gotten off free the idea that that could actually happen to us seemed impossible. We had, I suppose, the stereotypical teenage belief that we were...what, exactly? Not immortal, but...the closest I can come to is lucky with circumstances. We didn't do drugs, we had one black friend, we lived in good neighborhoods. Kenny, maybe, but never us. We were straight edge. Nobody was going to make us a statistic.

I found my spot. My argument, if you will. "Why don't you tell Sheila?"

"I don't want her to flip out," Kyle said automatically. "And I don't want to give her false hope."

I had my line. "Then why are you doing it to yourself?"

Kyle paused for awhile. Kyle thinks at like, the speed of the universe, so when he actually pauses to think it means shit is about to get really fucking intellectual. So you can imagine my surprise when he went, "I guess...I think it's easier, I guess."

Longer, more awkward pause. "What if it's not false hope? What if Ike's trying to get home?"

And here comes my memory again, drifting in and out like swells with the tide, my mind reeling. Sometimes, the clarity is perfect, I can remember the scent and the feeling and the sounds, other times all I have to cling to is the feel of my jeans beneath my palms. Sometimes not even that.

Kyle pulled the wrinkled paper sheet out from under his pillow, ran his fingers over it and chewed on his lower lip.

1. DONAHUE, WI ; 00:00:59 ; 2:47 AM ; 2/20

And I hate that little paper, I want to burn it and wrinkle it up and be done with it, so that it's demon will stop haunting Kyle and he can be free to grieve and to heal. But he can't, because that paper is tearing the wound open new every night. It still exists. I never got rid of it. Even know, it's probably still under his pillow, sucking in his soul like some kind of disgusting unholy parasite. Leeching him of his happiness.

"I was going through Ike's school records yesterday," Kyle told me. "There's a girl in his class named Natasha Donahue. Willy's sister. I'll bet that's how he got in contact with him in the first place, and she doesn't know what we look like so we could easily-"

"Kyle, no," I said, and looking back on it, I wouldn't do anything differently. There was a fine line between being so negative Kyle had to do it just to show me, and being supportive enough to go through with it. It was a delicate balance, a difficult dance. "We cannot go back around there. We were lucky because he didn't get any definite information on us, but we can't risk-"

"I'm not asking you to come with," said Kyle. "If you're not coming with me I'm going alone. I know I can't ask you to do this, but if I don't I'm going to spend the rest of my life wondering, and...I'm not...I can't handle that...I really can't, Stan."

And then I was stuck and frustrated and wanting to hug and kick Kyle all at once for giving a perfectly reasonable excuse for a perfectly terrible idea. There was no escaping anything, and I wasn't going to abandon my friend.

That was how I got sucked lower, deeper into Kyle's problems and my own. Our descent had begun.


End file.
